


Gathering Topographic Intel

by temporalDecay



Series: Tumblr Porn Prompt Fics [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Nook Eating, Nook Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For my tumblr porn drive.</p><p><em>Any characters: Where the troll's "bulge" is just a little bump shielding the nook, and all the fun is about the nook.</em> -- Anon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gathering Topographic Intel

“ _What?_ ” You snap, hoping you sound threatening and not terrified. 

Dave looks up at you over the rim of his sunglasses, eyes as red as yours will be in maybe a sweep or two. And then his lips pull into the single most obnoxious smirk imaginable. You want to reach out with a clawed hand and scratch his face until the fucking muscles under his skin are unable to produce such an expression ever again. 

“Chill, bro,” he says, shrugging and patting one of your thighs where one of his hands is hooked casually on it. You didn’t need a reminder of where his hand is or how spread your legs are. “Just doing some reconnaissance. Planning the strategy, preparing to deploy the heavy artillery. Can’t drop a military air strike without some proper topographic intel to—“ 

You try to close your legs, knees digging into the sides of his face as you try to push him away with your hands. The festering sack of pus rotten shame globes _laughs_. You feel marginally better about everything after about five minutes of the scuffle, though you wonder how the fuck did you end up with your legs wrapped around his shoulders. 

And he’s still fucking _smirking_. 

You’re going to murder him, once you’re done. 

But you’re going to get this done, first, because for all he’s taunting and being insufferable about it, he’s still _here_. 

“Do you want me to draw you a picture, Strider?” You hiss at him through clenched teeth, putting your hands on the seat of your chair and clutching it until your knuckles are paling. 

“Nah, man, I’ve seen your handiwork,” he shifts around, until he’s sitting on the floor at your feet, and that would be an amazing turn on if he would. Stop. _Smirking_. “You draw me a map, Kittykar—“ 

“Stop mangling my name!” 

“And I’ll sooner find my way to Narnia, no wardrobes required.” He grins. “Though if you’ve got a set of labels lying around, those would help.” 

Your cheeks are flaming scarlet. You know, you can feel it. You have half a mind to call it off, to put your pants back up and abscond away and never show your face again. But he’s still there and he’s waiting and as much as you want to strangle him for being… well, himself, the truth of the matter is that he’s still _here_. He’s got you half naked, sitting on a chair with your legs spread wide and your… everything on display, and he’s still here. You swallow hard. 

“Give me your hand,” you snap, voice uncomfortably hoarse, even as you snatch a hand without waiting for him to agree. 

“Now, what if—“ 

“This,” you say, voice airy and just the tiniest bit strangled, “is a bone bulge.” 

Dave goes miraculously quiet, as you hold his fingers to the hard ridge between your legs. You’re waiting for him to make a quip – _Jesus, you weren’t fucking around with the bone part, huh?_ Or maybe: _So you guys literally do get boners!_ – asinine and ridiculous like pretty much everything he ever says, but he just sits there, face inches away from your crotch, watching intently as you rub his fingers over the important bits. 

“The shame globes are behind it,” you go on, swallowing hard as you feel arousal start to replace the awkwardness. “With the nook beneath them.” You push his fingers down the hard ridge, to where the tiniest corner of your nook is barely visible. Then you drag his hand back up, caressing the entirety of your bugle. “And if you’re real good, Strider, like _really good_ , you’ll get to see what they look like when aroused.” 

You let go of his hand, waiting for him to abscond. He will, of course. And once he’s gone you’ll fuck yourself on your thighs like you’ve done all— 

The fucking canker in the whore mouth of the universe leans in and _licks_ you. 

“What the fuck are you—“ 

He looks up at you, over the rim of his ridiculous shades, tongue still pressed to the base of the ridge. He licks you again, just to hear you make that disgustingly pathetic sound again, you’re sure, and then smiles. 

“I’m being good, Karkat,” he says, before he leans in again to mouth all over your bulge, wet and soft and so fucking mortifying. “ _Real good_.” 

You can’t really feel what he’s doing – he’s licking a plate of highly specialized cartilage that’s almost the same consistency of bone – but you can see him. And hear him. He’s slurping and moaning as he molests your bone bulge, and all he manages to do is turn you on to a degree you didn’t know you were capable of. You shove at his head, trying to push him again, as you feel the tension in your groin reach breaking point and the muscle tense. 

“Stop that, I’ll—“ 

He only stops when he feels the hard planes shift. You don’t know what face he’s making, slumped back against the chair as your bulge retracts and your shame globes and your nook become visible. You can feel your globes slowly engorging, gathering genetic material and preparing to discharge if the situation presents itself, while your nook twitches as lubrication gathers in it. 

“So,” Dave says, absently reaching with a finger to wipe a glob of the pinkish wetness rushing to the entrance of your nook. You look down at him the precise moment he plops that finger into his mouth, and well… every day you learn a new thing, like how much is _too fucking aroused to function_. “Cherry red alien pussy.” He arches an eyebrow. “Can I lick it too?” 

He does. 

You scream. 

He keeps on licking, though, too smooth human tongue pressing against the engorged walls of your nook, and you can feel your shame globes slowly swelling up as your arousal reaches almost painful levels. You don’t dare touch yourself there with your hand, afraid the coarse hide in your fingers will hurt the delicate tissues. All you’ve ever done, when you couldn’t stop yourself any longer was to furiously rub your thighs and pretend there was someone else’s nook pressing against yours. 

But Dave is human, and he’s soft and pliable and full of round corners and squishy bits that are nowhere near as brutal as their troll equivalent. 

And his tongue is so far up inside your nook you can’t form a single coherent thought, never mind vocalize beyond a frenzied, wanton screaming. When he slides a finger in along with his tongue, you’re pretty sure you’re going to die. It occurs to you that he’s shoving his tongue _inside_ , on purpose, and that this might be some weird, backwards human way of doing things, because everyone knows things come out of nooks, not the other way around. And yet, you like it. You like it so much you’re digging your claws into the chair, trying by all means to keep your seedflap closed, despite the mounting pressure of genetic material gathering behind it. 

“Dave.” You’re shaking and he’s slurping messily on the thicker lubrication, the one that preludes release, and trying to work a second finger against your folds. “ _Dave_. I need—“ 

He licks you from one end to the other, starting dangerously close to your waste chute – _filthy!_ – all the way to the little edge of your bone bulge still visible. And in the process, his tongue slides over the clearly visible bumps of your shame globes. You make a loud, desperate noise and kick your feet as you feel a small trail of genetic material squeezing out of your nook. 

“Gotcha, bro,” he says, with that disgusting self-assurance of his, and he spreads your folds with his thumbs. You can feel his breath against the wetness and you shove a fist into your mouth, because this is wrong and terrible and you should have explained things before letting him get anywhere near your nook like this. You’re also loving every disgusting second of it and you think that if he stops any moment now, you might die of sheer frustration. He looks up at you again, red eyes teasing as he licked red – _your_ red – from his lips and his chin. “I know _exactly_ what you need.” 

He sucks on the indent between your shame globes. 

The world falls to pieces all around you. 

You scream so loud you swear everyone must have heard it, feeling your seedflap distend and a rush of genetic material flood your nook and beyond. You’re too gone to even worry about a pail. No, the world has ended and all that matters is the wet throbbing in your groin and the constant tense-and-release of your muscles as your nook squeezes out the genetic material passing through it. 

“Well,” Dave says, what feels like an eternity later and you’re mostly almost yourself, “that explains the buckets pretty fucking well.” 

You’re afraid to look down at him, certain that you must have drenched him in the throes of orgasm, using him like a pail. Normally you wouldn’t mind the idea, but theory and practice are two different things and— 

There’s red – _your red_ – down his chin and around his lips, yes, but he’s pretty damn immaculate all things considered. Then you notice the fact he’s holding a pail in his lap, like it’s the most casual and normal thing to do. You shift a little and you realize that yes. Yes, the damn thing really is half full with the unmistakable color of your blood. You’re almost capable of forming words, when he dips a finger in – a pruny finger tinted red, and you know exactly where it’s been before – and then sticks a glob of red into his mouth. 

Your pan shuts down. 

“Well, that’s disappointing,” he says after a moment, “I was expecting a cherry syrup explosion in my mouth.” You gurgle in disbelief. “Strawberry, at the very least.” 

“You’re not supposed to eat that, you shitting brainless _nookhump!_ That’s fucking _vile_ , you disgusting piece of—” 

He arches one eyebrow at you, challengingly, and then very purposely dips another finger into your genetic material. You’re all but vibrating when he presses it back into his mouth. 

He smirks. 

“So disgusting you don't want me to show you how mine works?” 

You don’t bother with words, really, not when your nook squeezes out one last drip of offensively bright red at the suggestion. You’re fairly certain you’re doomed. 

**Author's Note:**

> ...well, I was bound to write DaveKat _someday._


End file.
